


perfect paradise, tearing at the seams

by cardinalrachelieu



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, and he tells her a story of times long ago, in which solas and lavellan cuddle beneath the stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26959222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu
Summary: “Tell me again of Arlathan,” Ellana says, breaking the pleasant silence.Solas hums, a soft sound without edges. “What would you like to hear?”---or,one sad egg boi reflects on what once was
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	perfect paradise, tearing at the seams

Ellana has never been good at sitting still. 

And since being named Inquisitor, the urge to _do_ and _fight_ and _change_ has only grown stronger. People are counting on her. Patience may very well be a virtue, but it is not one she possesses. 

For Solas, though, she is trying. 

A speckled canopy of stars winks above them— constellations woven of stories as old as the Creators. There, a halla reared back on its hind legs in tribute to its mother. And there, four points forming a sun to honor Elgar’nan. Everywhere she looks, countless myths and legends are etched into the very heavens, all of them tilting and shifting as the moon continues to rise. 

Scattered bits of truth preserved in time. 

Beside her, Solas traces a poem onto her shoulder, each sweep of his fingertips a new verse. He has a way of unmaking her with his touch, of calming the storm that swirls around them— a relentless, grueling, raging thing that takes and takes and _takes_. So much is wrong in this world. So much has been lost. But tonight, here, with her head pillowed against his chest and the steady thump of his pulse drowning out her fears, there is no breach.

There are no red templars. Or darkspawn. Or hordes of demons spilling through wounds in the Veil.

There is no power-mad magister vying for godhood.

There is only them. Sprawled beneath a slow-churning sky. Limbs tangled, troubles quiet.

“Tell me again of Arlathan,” Ellana says, breaking the pleasant silence.

Solas hums, a soft sound without edges. “What would you like to hear?”

The people, the gods, the culture, the magic— he’s described it all, painted sweet portraits of Elvhenan’s everlasting vibrance with nothing more than his clever tongue. Now, when she closes her eyes, she can picture herself there. Now, when she closes her eyes, it’s as though she remembers. “Anything,” she whispers.

A warm, gentle breeze skitters through the grove, stirring the grass but leaving the trees untouched. In the distance, a group of heavy-footed brontos trudge across a stream.

“There was a man, once,” Solas starts, and Ellana lets her eyes drift shut. “He served at the will of the pantheon, acting as Dirthamen’s courier, and Andruil’s scout, and Mythal’s dealer of justice.”

“Was he not devoted to one god in particular?” she asks, unable to help herself.

Solas’s smile presses against her forehead, unseen but felt, like so much else about him. “Mythal was the first to summon him,” he says absently, “but he was not bound to her in the way her other followers were. True loyalty is never earned at the end of a leash.” Before she can comment on the unexpected venom in his words, he continues, “Some of the Evanuris despised him. Others sought his counsel.”

“A counselor to the gods?” she says, lifting herself up to meet his gaze. “What was this man’s name? I don’t recall any stories about such a person.”

Solas tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, lets his touch linger on her neck. “You people’s stories get much wrong,” he says gently, “and leave even more out.”

She blinks. Looks away. “Right.”

“Ir abelas, vhenan.” He smooths his thumb along her jaw, an echo of his apology. “I did not intend offense.”

“Ma banal abelas,” she says. “You’re correct, of course. And I will always prefer the truth over a pretty fantasy.” She fits herself against him once more, rocking her head back and forth a few times to get comfortable. “Continue?”

“As you wish,” he says, fingers resuming their lazy dance across her shoulder, down her arm. “Over time, the man grew… close with Mythal. He even argued with her on occasion.”

“The All-Mother allowed him to challenge her?”

“She encouraged it,” he counters, a note of fondness in his tone. “Truth be told, they rarely saw eye to eye, but perhaps that is why she trusted him. A side effect of wielding power is that one’s followers begin fearing the consequences of dissent more than they value candor.”

“Are you speaking from experience, oh great and influential elven apostate?”

Her teasing is received with warm laughter. “I need only look as far as you, Inquisitor, to find evidence of such phenomena.”

Much as she’s loath to admit it, he has a point. Even Cassandra’s been guarding her words of late.

“In any event, Mythal and—” He pauses to clear his throat. “Mythal and this man were working toward the same end— freedom for _all_ beings, regardless of origin or status.”

“That sounds noble.”

“Is it noble to do what is necessary?”

“It can be.”

He hums. Falls silent. Several moments later, he says, “Unfortunately, their vision never came to pass.”

She makes to tilt her head, but Solas’s chest gets in the way. “Why not?” she asks.

“Mythal’s conception of equity had… limits. Qualifiers.” Solas bites off each word, abrupt in a way he usually isn’t. It verges on blasphemous, but then again he’s always been somewhat critical of the Creators. “The man disagreed with her on this, so he left.”

“He left?”

“Yes.”

She frowns. “Just like that?”

“It was not a decision he made lightly.”

“What makes you say that?”

Solas’s fingers stiffen, skip a beat in their song against her skin. “It is as I’ve said before— the Fade carries imprints of emotions alongside memories.” He starts up again with a languid pattern of swirls at the base of her neck, and she releases a soft sigh at the grace in his touch. “Whatever else the man may have felt,” he continues, “he was not eager to abandon their goal.” 

She makes a small noise of acknowledgement. “What happened next?”

“I… cannot say.” 

The way his voice catches on the words draws her curiosity. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Observant tonight,” he comments, and it sounds like a compliment.

“I’m always observant.”

“Mm, yes.”

She relaxes against him, yielding to the warmth suffusing her spine, the contentment of being here, with him. “I’m not getting the end of that story, am I?”

“It is not worth telling, vhenan.”

She could press him on it, but that would likely accomplish nothing (apart from ruining their so-far lovely evening). He has a tendency to close himself off when challenged directly. So instead, she stares at the ancient sky overhead— the same sky that existed before the Sundering. The same sky that hung over Arlathan. “Do you ever wonder what our days would be like,” she says absently, “if we had been alive back then?”

“Yes,” Solas whispers, the admission little more than a rustle of breath. After a long stretch of silence, he says, “We’d wake wrapped in glittering dawn, the world around bathed in magic— sweetening the air and brightening the stars. And the People… fellow Elvhen nearby in grand halls and wide fields. At work. At peace. Simply tending to their lives.”

“Mm, that sounds nice.”

“It was.”

She crinkles her brow. “Was?”

Solas’s hand briefly clenches against her shoulder, but he finds his rhythm again soon enough. “Forgive me,” he says. “Memories from the Fade can feel so real at times.”

She’s jealous of him, of this connection he’s forged with their ancestors. He has learned more through casual dreams than even the most devoted scholars have discovered in entire lifetimes. “Do you visit Arlathan often in your journeys?” she asks.

Above them, the moon weeps silver into the clouds, spills watery light across a deep, endless black. Solas takes a slow breath. “Not anymore.”

“How come?”

“It is… difficult to be reminded of what was.” His following exhale is long and measured. “Our people were once great.”

Ellana pushes herself onto an elbow so she can look at him properly when she says, “We still are.”

His throat works around a swallow, and he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“We _are_ , Solas,” she says again. “Status and spirit are not the same, and losing the former has no bearing on the latter.”

He lightly grazes the backs of his fingers along her jaw, but his somber expression remains unchanged. “I wish that were true,” he says softly.

On any other night, she’d argue with him—point out the insult in his words—but tonight… tonight she doesn’t have it in her. On a huff, she settles back into the crook of his arm. Nestles close.

Above them, the sky turns and turns. Eternal. Unbothered. Somewhere nearby, a lone wolf howls into the dark.

“I have upset you,” he says apologetically.

She sighs.

“Tell me how—”

“Just hold me, Solas.” Ellana shuts her eyes and focuses on releasing the tension in her muscles. “I’ll explain all the ways you’re wrong in the morning, _after_ I’ve had some coffee.”

He lets out a subdued bark of laughter. Gently cards his fingers through her hair. “I look forward to the lashing,” he says, and she can hear the grin on his lips.

“Rest up, elf boy,” she mumbles, already drifting off. “You’re going to need the energy.”

**Author's Note:**

> can't get these two out of my head. can't stop thinking about how many times solas wanted to tell her everything. ugh, this fuckin egg.
> 
> I WEEP.
> 
> come yell with me on [tumblr](http://cardinalrachelieu.tumblr.com) >:]


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